


Like Honey in a Cup of Acid

by TheDarkFlygon



Series: Theatro Mundi (BTHB 2) [25]
Category: Caduceus | Trauma Center Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, LGBTQ Themes, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Derek, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22482910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: You may have explanations to give to your assistant now that she's discovered something wasn't exactly normal, Derek.(You may also like not to do so because you want to forget).
Relationships: Derek Stiles/Angela "Angie" Thompson
Series: Theatro Mundi (BTHB 2) [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453555
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Like Honey in a Cup of Acid

**Author's Note:**

> _We've always been fucked up because nature is, in fact, a dirty little bitch who enjoys itself with abnormalities._
> 
> Written for my (second) Bad Things Happen Bingo card.  
> Prompt: Forced Out of the Closet
> 
> This story absolutely isn't for the faint of heart. It openly and severely deals with gender dysphoria. It may be phrased with my usual dose of purple prose bullshit sparkles, but that's kind of it. It's still raw. Needless to say it's based on personal experience.  
> Also, hahaha, guess who got stuck with his stupid ideas. I don't even remember why I picked "Forced Out of the Closet" back in August. I think I was planning on making this an original work thing, but it ended up never panning because I switched fully into fandom mood shortly thereafter. I'm pretty sure I was saying that about my first card back in April for "Panic Attack", no? Well, it ended up becoming this thing. I don’t know what to make of it yet.
> 
> It's a really weird note to end my 2nd BTHB card on. Until now, compared to the first card, I've been much more focused on physical pain. This has none of it and only 2nd POV narration and angst. I originally started it in a 3rd person POV, but it didn't work out and I thought it'd be worse if I wrote it in a 2nd person POV. It is. It's vivid and it's painful. I love it.  
> Again, thanks to my Writing Crew for the support despite me being an edgy-ass bitch. I guess yiu can also call us the Derek Suffering Crew?
> 
> The title of this was what I wanted to give the sixth chapter of Earth Never Stops, but it ended up not really ringing right with that chapter in particular. I feel like it fits here much better.  
> And of course we gotta go with a rewritten Angie because, y'know. Canon Angie is canon Angie...

A sort of weight immediately hits you when Angie asks you if you can have a little talk now that your thoughts aren’t just a painkiller-induced mishmash of words and incoherent thoughts with neither head nor tail. She looks concerned and perplexed, puzzled even, her eyes never truly looking into yours. Almost as if, for once, the fierce and daring Angie is intimidated by something about you. Sounds farfetched, right?

Well, there could be a number of reasons. You did almost just die on her a couple days ago and surely you can’t look much better than your own patients at the moment. You know, the usual: pale face, dark rings under the eyes that look like trenches, reddened eyes… She could just be very concerned for you like Kimishima has told you before when checking if you were still amongst the living.

When you finally have the “little talk”, it’s in your hospital room, with you still bedridden and her on a chair to your left, next to the IV drip still inserted into your wrist, her hands pinching her skirt or clutching a notepad against her chest when she holds it. You’re not sure if there’s something even written on the thing, wondering if it isn’t just her way to cope with stress and whatever is making her anxious. Her fingers are shaking and the hair on her exposed forearms is risen. How come she’s so terrified? Do you really look this awful?

“What did you want to tell me about, Angie?” You ask, in a gentle tone, making sure you aren’t forcing on your throat so you don’t worry her even more. The tense silence in the room and the lack of noise in the later hours of the evening helps your low voice to be heard.

“I… Huh… Well, it’s just that… I was curious!”

“Curious? About what?”

Angie looks away, red creeping on her cheeks, breath hitching in her throat. She gulps, shakes her head, takes a deep breath in, another out, and finally, looking at the ground, starts speaking again.

“When Dr Kimishima started the operation I…” She hides her face in her hands, her notepad and pen clicking against the ground. “I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing, but I haven’t stopped thinking about it since your operation!” Well, this sure is going to be a dirty secret, as Tyler would have said. “But, when she started the operation, I noticed something on your chest, and…”

Your heart skips a beat. You forgot about that, haven’t you? You forgot she’d notice such a thing, didn’t you? Alas, it’s a bit too late to pretend like she didn’t see what she must have seen. Kyriaki nor Paraskevi are known to leave stains on one’s skin, they aren’t Tetarti.

“What did you see?” You ask, feigning ignorance.

“Ah… I don’t know how to describe them well… But they were two weirdly shaped scars around your pectoral muscles. They kind of looked like –”

“—crescents, right?”

“Yeah!”

Angie picks her notepad back into her hands, avoiding eye contact, much to your satisfaction. You really, really don’t want to have this conversation, this awful, rotten conversation you’ve had a couple times already. If it’s never ended too badly, even with your own mother, you still don’t want to live through it again. Alas, did you really think you’d escape it forever, especially with someone you hold so close to your heart (and in more ways than one too)? You’d have had to tell her one day anyway, so better get on with it, right?

Wrong. Your hands are trembling and your throat is tied into a knot. You don’t want to utter these forsaken words. You want that part of you to remain a secret from the entire world. But, alas, you also don’t want to lie to your trusted nurse, to your best friend during surgery procedures. In any case, she’d eventually guessed you lied to her, so popping the bubble off now or later is kind of the same. But, even with that knowledge in mind… It doesn’t make what’s about to happen any less dreadful.

_Derek?_

What if she isn’t as accepting as she seems? What if she stares at you right in the eyes like a freak, like a circus monster, like a broken doll that was badly stringed back together, like something that shouldn’t be, like, like…

_Huh… Derek?_

And, hey, what if she thinks you’re not fit for you job because of this? You’re technically experiencing a state of distressed triggered by the littlest things. It’s about faraway childhood memories, whenever you see a father with his biological child, when someone mentions a monthly event you’d have rather never known… Hey, what if that happened during an operation?

_Dereeeeek? Are you still here?_

You can’t ignore the existential dread coursing through your veins. You know, the one that happens when you remember that your father never called you by your right name, what was written on your birth certificate, what they called you in high school, how you look on all the pictures your mom won’t set fire to like you wish you could do… Yeah, _that_ dread. That toxic, lava-like _dread_.

_Hey, Derek, what’s wrong?!_

Her urgent tone makes you snap back to reality. She’s staring at you with big, full of concern eyes, her hands on your shoulder, gently shaking it.

“Ah, sorry, I… must have zoned out. Sorry for worrying you, Angie…?”

“Are you alright? You’ve got tears in your eyes…”

You realize you have to look dumb and weird, so you take your glasses off and rub the water away.

“What were you saying, then?”

“Ah, huh… I was talking about the scars you had on your chest… I’ve never seen such specific shapes before. So…” Her hands tangle together. “I was curious, that’s it. Feel free not to reply, if it throws you in such a state of distress…”

“No, it’s… It’s fine. It’s just… difficult to explain.”

Your voice breaks when you try to push the words out of your tangled throat. You aren’t ready for this. You’ve not found your way out of there yet. You’ve been pushed into a corner and the only way out is to find the right words at the right time while not knowing how she’ll react. Maybe she’ll really think you’re the error of nature you are, you whose brain and body weren’t able to match, you whose chromosomes and spirit never agreed before your birth, you who has had to fight your way out of the mess your own biology threw you into before you were even born.

Her fingers are cold against your feverish skin, against the goose-bumps that your medical gown doesn’t hide well. You’ve made it this far only for your world to perhaps crumble again and the existential dread appears again. What if she never accepts you again? What if she calls you “Mr Stiles” again, starts staring at you with an amused glare? What if this supportive glance she gives you and the kind words she’s offered since you got over your differences disappeared as soon as she knew? Why is it that you always have to throw a shot in the dark when the truth of your story comes back to bite you?

You need to trust in Angie, don’t you? She’s been kind of your guardian angel until now, would she give up on you for this? Do you believe so little in her for that to happen? Aren’t you too harsh on her, aren’t you getting too caught up in your own web?

“I… got them from a surgery I had in med school. As far as I know, only Tyler and a couple other people are aware I have them.”

“From what kind of surgery?”

Here it comes. The nausea’s already here, twisting your stomach, squeezing your heart as it increases in pulse, choking your throat shut. If you weren’t in this bed, surely your head would spin.

“…Top surgery.”

Angie seems fairly confused, until her eyes snap open, glimmering in realization.

“You mean, like a mammectomy?”

“…Yes.”

Your voice almost fails you again. You feel tears you want to dry again burning your retinae, blurring your vision and the candid face of the nurse who’s just realized what you really were. You fucking _liar_.

“For…”

“Part of gender dysphoria treatment,” you reply trying to pretend to be an encyclopaedia, to be the internet pages you read in your teenage years when puberty got confusing and warped into a lucid nightmare.

“Oh my God…”

Angie’s face distorts in what you can only qualify as distress, horror or disgust. She tries looking at you, fixating on your bandaged chest, her gaze struggling to even meet with your face. You wish you could pat her head, tell her it’s fine, that she didn’t know, that you’re sorry for being that and not telling her before, that she’s right to feel betrayed if that’s the case; but your hands are numb and dirty, covered in acid and black mud, and you can’t dirty her like that because you, yourself, are a special kind of a biological and anatomical failure. She’s a collection doll, you’re a broken toy.

“I’m sorry, Derek, I’m… I… I shouldn’t be like that!” She stumbles on her own words. “You’ve just told me such an important thing and I… I…”

“It’s fine…” You try to sound reassuring, but the truth is that you’re still shaking, terrified and apprehensive.

“I should’ve known! It’s such a sensitive topic, I… God, Angie, you need to pull yourself together and stop being so noisy!”

He clutches her hand at last.

“It’s fine, really. I’m… at least glad I could tell you by myself…”

That’s not entirely wrong. You just wish you didn’t feel backed into such an uncomfortable corner. It’s not her fault, of course, she was just concerned for an abnormal thing about you… A lot of you is abnormal, after all.

“I’m still me, though.” You want to assert that with that shaky voice of yours. “It’s just something I don’t like… talking about, per say.

Angie takes a deep breath and focuses back into a state of stability.

“Of course you’re still you, Derek. You’re still the surgeon who saved the world from GUILT. I would never stop thinking that. You’ve always been Derek to me, why would that change now?”

The warm smile he gives her make the hair on his skin calm down, little by little. It’ll be okay, eventually.

“I’m just… so sorry I forced you to confess like that.”

“I’d have had to tell you anyway, one day, I suppose…”

“You didn’t have to. At least, not this early…”

“It’s fine anyway. I forgive you.”

“Thanks…”

For the first time since she’s entered the room, you can exhale with a relieved heart and a normal pulse, profit from the rainbow that shows up after the rain. The dread is still there, hiding like a snake in your stomach, ready to bite into your throat at any moment of vulnerability you show in front of it; but, now, you have a new ally to help through the storms.

“Just promise me you’ll never tell anyone, okay?”

“I never planned on having that secret exit this room. Not even the walls of Caduceus will know about it!”

You chuckle.

“I like your spirit.”

You want to thank her again, but it feels like overkill, and you want to have the snake finally resting, asleep in the pit of your abdomen. For now, a serene silence is enough. It’s more than enough after all this trouble, all the turmoil and all of the acid rain that drenched the both of you…

There’s no need to worry anymore when you have nothing left to hide and no one but a guardian next to you; so relax, now. It’ll all be fine, from now on, now that the lead prison around your chest is gone…


End file.
